


Like Minds

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Greg Lestrade appears, M/M, background Lestrade/Molly (brief mention)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 14:46:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17246108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: Rosie's teacher says that people get married when they love each other very much and want to be together, always. Which is exactly how Rosie feels about Sherlock.





	Like Minds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adashibloger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adashibloger/gifts).



> I cherry-pick seasons 3 and 4. In this particular 'verse, John and Sherlock didn't go after Mary when she left. 
> 
> Written as a secret santa for Adashibloger. Happy New Year!

New Scotland Yard was always busy, always a strange blend of dull routine underscored with urgency. Yesterday’s case had supplied a hit of adrenaline and mental challenge; today was the drudgery of paperwork. Sherlock would likely never enjoy it, but he’d come to accept the necessity. He passed the papers across the desk and glanced ostentatiously at his watch. “Signed. Anything else, Detective Inspector?” 

“Somewhere you need to be, then?” Greg flipped through the papers, checked that all the signatures and initials were correct, and tucked the packet into a waiting folder.

“I’m to pick up Watson,” he said, before correcting himself. “Rosie. From nursery school..” 

“I thought John did Wednesdays?” 

“Had an errand to run, he said. Awkwardly, and he’s been twitchy about his computer so I assume it’s my Christmas gift. I didn’t pry.”

“Look who’s gone all tame and domestic,” and Greg was mostly kidding. Not worth getting his back up. “Off you go then, collect your daughter.” 

“John’s.”

“Pardon?” 

“Rosie is John’s daughter.” 

“Step-daughter, then.” Greg shrugged. “Molly figures mine are hers, doesn’t she?” He waggled his be-ringed left hand toward the wedding photo on his desk: Him, Molly, and the young Lestrades beaming at the camera in the moments after signing the license.

“So she does. The difference being that you are married.”

“Yeah,” he said, wonderingly, “we really are. So?” 

Sherlock pulled the glove over his own bare fingers. “So, John and I are not.”

“Maybe it’s time you did something about that.”

“He has expressed no interest in formalizing our relationship. It would therefore be presumptuous of me to claim Rosie as kin.”

Greg closed his eyes with a frustrated exhale. “You two...I swear. Do you ever talk, or just blunder about with kisses and assumptions?” 

“We talked this morning. The result of which conversation is that I am to collect Rosie from nursery school while John runs a completely mysterious errand.” He left without saying anything more.

He distracted himself with deductions on the lift, with flagging down a cab and giving the address. He stared out the window, watching pre-Christmas London slide past and wondering at the idea that had sprung, fully formed, into his mind at Lestrade’s words. 

_Your daughter_

He wasn’t the first one to say such a thing, of course. Balance of probability: a grown man and a bright child at the shops, the zoo, the museum - people would assume he must be her father. 

_Blunder about with kisses and assumptions_

That much, he supposed, was correct. He assumed, because John never said anything, that he was content with how things stood between them. That, because his marriage of lies had been traumatic, because he’d severed the connection as soon as could be arranged once she’d left, he had less than no interest in being locked into another partnership. Maybe...

“Here’s your stop, mate,” the cabbie interrupted his musings, and he quickly paid him and walked to the door of Acorns and Oaks Montessori Learning Center. The bright blue door was unlocked at pickup times, and he joined the cluster of adults filing into the building. They were in ones and twos, coming from coffee or going to playdates, announced by the teachers in a ritual of farewell: “Archie, your mother is here. George, here’s your nanny. Martina, your mum’s ready to go. Rosie, Mr Holmes is here.” He suspected it was a way for the staff to be certain each child left with an approved guardian, a mental tick mark when each was identified, as much as a way of controlling the hallway chaos at the end of the school day. He took charge of Rosie, all smiles and chatter while they walked down the hall to her cubby, collected her bag, fastened her coat, tucked her curls into a cozy hat. 

“I made a drawing for you and Daddy, and I did the math balance. And Miss Janice is leaving, but she’ll come back, and we’ll have Mr Eric while she’s away. Why did you put pine-abbles in my lunch? I hate pine-abbles.” She took his hand, waved goodbye, and they were on their way home. 

“I’m sorry about the pineapple,” he said after she’d narrated the events of her day, and refrained from pointing out that she’d liked it well enough last week. John had snickered into his tea when she announced that she was ‘bored to death’ of vegetables, nobody else’s lunch had carrots, and would he please put in something better. 

“It’s okay. Martina traded me for her banana.” 

“You aren’t supposed to do trades,” he reminded her. “In case someone is allergic. Your father won’t want another note home.” 

“Nobody saw,” she answered blithely. “And we both aren’t allergic. No trades is boring.” She looked up at him, then skipped a few steps and leaped over a crack in the pavement. 

“Why is Miss Janice going away?”

“She’s getting married.” They’d reached the corner, and he placed one hand on her shoulder to guide her into the crossing. “She said that people get married when they love each other very much and want to live together forever.”

“That’s right,” he affirmed.

“So I’m going to marry you.” 

Sherlock blinked, managed not to stop in the middle of the intersection, and narrowly avoided tripping on the curb in front of the flat. He opened the outer door and tried to collect himself while he relocked, unlocked the inner, and scooted her through. Mrs Hudson poked her head into the foyer and Rosie ran over for a hug. 

“Well, hello, darling girl. Did you have a good day?” 

Rosie nodded, reported her teacher’s news and explanation, and finished with, “That’s why I’m going to marry Sherlock.” 

“My goodness! It sounds like you two have a lot to talk about.” 

Mrs Hudson shot him a look over Rosie’s head, a clear warning to Not Mess This Up. But what was he to do? He raised placating hands to his landlady, an Everything is Under Control gesture, even though he knew that was probably a lie. He’d lost control somewhere between Greg’s office and the school. 

Upstairs, he managed to distract her with the business of changing clothes, washing hands, and setting out some tea and biscuits, but then she was on him again. 

“What did Mrs Hudson mean? That we have a lot to talk about?” Her tone said that there was no discussion needed, because everything had already been decided. 

“I suppose she meant that I’m to tell you we cannot get married. That I am too old, or you are too young, or that you’ll certainly change your mind when you’re older.” He sipped his tea and watched her face while she worked through all of that. Endlessly thinking, this one, and increasingly able to dive right to the heart of a problem. She didn’t disappoint.

“But you aren’t going to say that, are you?” The shrewd look on her face was pure John, followed a second later with a cheeky grin. 

“No. I’m not,” he answered, and ate a biscuit to give himself time to think it all through. “Tell me again why people get married?” 

“Because they love each other, and they want to be together for always.” She reached out and snagged the last biscuit, bringing it slowly to her lips and watching for a scold. When none came, she took a bite and then dunked it in her tea. 

“They want to be together. Like a family?” He probed. 

“Uh-huh.” 

“And you want to be a family with me.” 

“Yes,” she said, delighted that he was getting the point. 

He ran one hand over her bright hair, turning things over in his head, letting the connections form and spread until he had the whole of it settled into one clear idea. “Mrs Hudson is right, of course. I can’t marry you. But-” he held up one hand to forestall her protest “-but, I can become your family. What if I marry your daddy, and then we’ll all be a family?” 

She pursed her lips and looked around the room. “Do you love Daddy?” 

“Very much,” he answered.

“Does Daddy love you?” 

“He does. And you.” 

She nodded, then asked solemnly, “Do you love me?” 

“Yes, darling, I certainly do. Do you love me?” 

She leapt up and ran to him, climbing into his lap and throwing her arms around his neck. “I love you forever!” 

He held her close for a long moment, then pulled her down to look into her face. “Then I think we need to…” he cut off at the sound of the lower door opening, and footsteps on the stairs. 

“Daddy’s home!” Rosie was off his lap in a flash, darting across the room and out to the landing before he could stop her or finish telling her that he ought to talk to John first. “Daddy! Daddy, guess what? I can’t marry Sherlock, but we want to be a family all of us together for always, so he’s gonna marry YOU!” 

Sherlock sighed. Somehow, in regaining control over this situation, he’d lost it irrevocably.

“What?” John at least wasn’t frowning, letting Rosie tug him into the room and over to Sherlock. “Sherlock? What’s going on?” 

He looked casually up from his spot on the sofa, lacing his hands together to keep them from shaking. “Not quite how I’d have proposed, John, but she’s essentially correct.” 

“What?”

“Rosie wants us all to be a family. Let’s get married.”

“We should get married because Rosie thinks so?” 

“So does Greg.” 

John started to sit on the edge of the sofa, changed his mind and brought the client chair over. Sitting down, he pulled Rosie into his lap. “Okay, so Rosie and Greg think we should get married. Because Rosie wants us to be a family.”

“And be together always,” Rosie put in.

“And be together always,” John repeated with a quirk of his lips. “So now I know what Rosie wants, and what Greg thinks, but what I’d really like to know, Sherlock, is what you think. What do you want?” 

“Oh. Well. I...if you’re content with things as they are, we don’t need to...that is…” 

“Sherlock. Don’t tell me what you think I want; we’ll get to my part in a minute. Right now, you’re going to tell me what you want.” 

They sat together, the two of them, blue eyes and bluer, looking unflinchingly at him, waiting for his words. Rosie’s face was open, expectant; she was certain of his answer. John’s eyes crinkled at the corners, his lips not curled in a not-quite smile. Equally certain? No, the tension in his neck gave it away. Certain what he wanted, yes, but not of Sherlock’s answer. Faced with it, now, however unexpectedly, Sherlock knew exactly what his answer would be. 

“I want us to be a family, John. You, and me, and Rosie. I’m doing it all wrong, I don’t have a ring or anything, but...can we be a family?” 

John did smile then, and tucked his hand into his jacket pocket. “Rosie, love, get down now. Go give this to Sherlock.” He handed her a small box and Sherlock’s heart stuttered.

Rosie brought it over and put it in Sherlock’s outstretched hand. He opened it, couldn’t help the tiny inhale at the pair of plain gold bands inside. His eyes flashed back to see a wide grin spreading over John’s face. 

“It was meant to be for Christmas,” he explained. “But the pair of you seem to have moved the schedule forward. As it happens, I think Rosie and Greg are right. We should get married, and the three of us should be a family. Together always.”


End file.
